


Marriage Talk

by SharaMichaels



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Engagement, F/M, Family Angst, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 00:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8423788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharaMichaels/pseuds/SharaMichaels
Summary: Modern day AU. Raoul and Christine have a tradition of drinking coffee at their favourite cafe every Friday and talk about how their week went. One particular evening, Raoul brings up a serious subject that leads to a very emotional conversation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For this piece, I used elements from both the Webber and Leroux versions of the story. The backstory, the family relationships and the personalities of the characters (at least that's what I was going for; might have not completely succeeded in that regard) are taken from the Leroux novel. The timeline and Christine's job at the opera are taken from the Webber musical: this scene happens during the six months between the first and the second act, while I also used the idea that Christine was originally a dancer. It's a piece I wrote for fun and because I like coffee, dialogue and the friends turned lovers trope. I hope it will make you smile as much as it makes me. Enjoy.

 

 

Christine called it the _hipster_ ’s café, although to Raoul it had never been clear what exactly qualified as a _hipster_. Every once in a while Christine would point out a random human being and exclaim “look at that hipster, so annoying!”, but Raoul never managed to tell the difference between the person’s attire and Christine’s own outfits. When she walked into the café that Friday afternoon, she definitely looked like she belonged. Raoul watched her greet the owner in the most familiar of manners – she was, after all, one of the most faithful customers – then take out her street clothes, one by one. Their usual spot was a small table in the farthest corner of the café. It featured a huge window, perfect for dreams and gossip about the outside world, and an old sofa, with damaged resorts that did a bad job at equally supporting their weight, but was always covered in colorful quilts and pillows, which made for a homely atmosphere. Raoul had already donned his first coffee; it had not been a good day and he hoped the light drug qualities of the drink would ease him into happiness. Turned out coffee was not nearly enough to numb the pain of existential arguments with the family.

When Christine finally reached him, she was carrying almost as many clothes as she was wearing.

“Hello, darling, have you been waiting for long? Rehearsals dragged on for forever,” she greeted quickly, glancing at his empty cup of coffee, then back at his face. She then sat down next to the young man, dropped the handful of clothing on the end of the sofa and tried to arrange them in such a way no item was to fall out of the pile.

“You know I’m more than willing to wait for _you_ ,” he replied, stretching towards her, waiting for a kiss.

Christine turned around and gave him a quick peck on the lips; it was nothing less than what the viscount wanted. He loved these rushed kisses of hers, given with such familiarity and carelessness. There was always a promise for more in these tiny gestures of affection and they helped him believe they weren’t sharing their last kiss quite yet.

A waiter approached and took Christine’s order. She let down her hair, commenting about how nice it was to get rid of the clamp that pulled at her follicles and made her head hurt all day. She combed the messy curls with her fingers, then kicked off her boots and gathered her legs underneath her, twisting her body in Raoul’s direction. He was lost in thought, looking at the crowd passing outside, and she ran her knuckles along his cheek to grab his attention.

“What are you thinking about?”

He glanced back at her and was met with the most adorable of smiles. His first impulse was to kiss her, to lose himself in that physical gesture, one to hopefully sweep all his dark thoughts away. It was again one of the many Fridays when he was afraid of sudden endings and ready to take his farewell at any second. But he didn’t want to scare Christine. She kept her blue eyes on him and he managed to convince himself they had more time.

“Raoul…”

“Nothing, it’s nothing. Friday afternoon, you know… that’s when exhaustion really sets in.”

He knew she had been rehearsing her feet off – back in the corps de ballet ever since the opera ghost’s tyranny had subsided – and the last thing he wanted was to burden her with more problems.

“How’s rehearsals going? I heard Marie broke her ankle and they’re desperately trying to find a replacement,” he asked, doing as much as he could to sound relaxed.

“That is correct. Look at you, the opera patron, always so informed!” she replied with a playful smile and a raised eyebrow. “Thank God they didn’t make me do her part; I’ve always hated her scenes. Sadly, the director has been eyeing Meg, which means I won’t have her by my side all the time anymore. That’s sad.”

“How did it even happen? Actually, you know what, maybe it’s better if you don’t tell me.”

“No need to worry; there wasn’t any bone sticking out anywhere. But anyway, it wasn’t even the most ridiculous thing that happened this week.”

Raoul laid his head on the back of the sofa and encouraged her to explain. But he was looking her and didn’t manage to register any of the words. The only thing that mattered was that she was in his proximity and he was able to hear her voice. And there was a very good chance to lose her sooner than expected…

Christine was halfway through her story when she noticed the lost gaze in his eyes. She stopped and threw a half annoyed gaze at him:

“Raoul, are you even listening?”

He flinched, murmured a dreamy “hm?” and Christine got her answer there. She was ready to treat him with a sarcastic joke, but something in his demeanor made her settle for a softer approach.

“Raoul, dear, is there something wrong?”

He rolled his eyes at no one in particular.

“Nothing you should be concerned about.” But she kept pinning him with her most determined gaze and he gave up. Maybe it would not be the end of the world to share his troubles. So he lifted his head, straightened his shoulders, and spilled the beans.

“Philippe gave me another ‘marriage talk’.”

“A what?”

Raoul crossed his arms in front of his chest and took a deep breath.

“You know when you’re twelve and your family gives you the ‘sex talk’?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Christine replied. “When you’re a girl and your only family is your father, you get an anatomy book for Christmas… while he’s probably praying you’re smart enough to figure it all out.” That drew a giggle out of the young man and she joined him in the laughter. “Luckily, I _was_ smart enough to figure it out. But I have to tell you, understanding dirty jokes in the ballerina’s dressing room is not the easiest thing when all you know is scientific terms.”

“I didn’t know ballerinas were prone to dirty jokes.”

Christine looked at him amused and pinched his cheek.             

“You’re really cute when you are naïve, did you know that?” then, succumbing to the naughty desire to see him blush, she added: “Jammes likes her boys naïve.”

He let out a throaty “oh God” and let his head fall between his hands. Christine ruffled his hair. “Of course, I wouldn’t let her get you without a fight.” Then she decided the joke had lasted enough and reverted to the old subject, one that she found herself rather curious about: “Anyway, the marriage talk. What did you mean by that?”

Raoul’s mood changed in front of her eyes. He suddenly became serious and his tone gained a shade of anger.

“When you’re a member of one of the last noble families in France, you need to think really hard about how you will marry.” He paused, looked around for their waiter, and then signaled him to approach. “I need another drink for this,” he explained to Christine, then gave his order when the waiter arrived. “The future is really scary, Christine,” he continued when they were alone once again. “I have so much planning to do, you have no idea. Philippe has already started talking about what I’m going to do when I finish my studies. He asked me if I have any ideas and I said I was thinking about getting a master’s degree in oceanography. You know what he replied to that?” Christine shrugged and he sighed. “He said I have my whole life for that. I need to start figuring out how business works around the estate. And he didn’t say it directly, but he did imply that I should be thinking about who my ‘Madame de Chagny’ should be. ‘I’m too busy to get married’, he said, ‘can’t see it happening in the foreseeable future. However, someone has to pass on the name. We need to get you more out there, in the good world. There’s no immediate pressure, but it’s about time you met some women.’ Can you believe this?”

Christine couldn’t hold back a chortle and it rubbed off on Raoul as well. “Time to meet some women. That was precisely his choice of words.” There was more he wanted to say, as there had definitely been more to that conversation, but the next part had a huge potential to hurt Christine. He wanted nothing more than to talk to his friend, to shake off all his worries and problems, but if there was even the smallest possibility to upset her, maybe he should keep them to himself.

The young man’s dilemma was luckily postponed by the arrival of his second coffee. The waiter set a ginormous cup in front of him, partially melted marshmallows dripping from a side. Raoul licked the damage up, then proceeded to take a huge sip out of the concoction, under Christine’s amused gaze.

“How can you even drink that?” she asked from behind her _plain with just a drop of milk and two sugars please_ coffee. “You’ll get diabetes before you even turn thirty.”

“You don’t get diabetes from sugar,” he replied, putting his mug down. “It’s a metabolic disorder.”

Christine rolled her eyes adorably and scoffed.

“Whatever. I can sing an E6, I don’t need to know these things,” she said, turning away from him, in pretense indifference.

Christine never got cocky. She had a mountain of respect for all her colleagues and was generally rather self-conscious and shy. But whenever they were alone together she allowed herself these little bouts of theatrical arrogance, for personal humor more than anything else. The viscount was overwhelmed with love. He threw his arms around her and pulled her whole in his embrace, pressing a noisy kiss on her cheek.

“I love you so much you little opera diva you!”

Christine melted in his embrace. His jumper was fluffy and soft, like a cozy, comforting blanket, and he was warm and smelled lovely, like he always did. It was a scent she couldn’t attribute to anything, but whatever the description on the bottle would have been, it didn’t matter much. Raoul had been wearing it since the first day they met again at the opera house and it had been enough to settle the connection in her mind. The perfume was _Raoul-scented_. She let her head fall against the inside of his upper arm. Hidden away from the eyes of the world, in the soothing murmur of the café, she felt at peace and her tired brain allowed the words she’d usually stop at the tip of her tongue to fly free.

“I love you, too. Oh, I love you so much…”

Raoul could sense her getting sad. As if a current traveled from her body to his, he vividly felt her happiness decreasing and the smile fading from her lips, even though he couldn’t see them. The first impulse was to say something, but he fought against it and decided to be patient and wait for her to give him a sign.

“Remember when you _proposed_ to me?”

The question surprised him, and he wasn’t very fond of its tone either.

“Yes…? I had the feeling you accepted.”

Christine sighed. “And I was hoping you weren’t all that serious…” her words ended in a whisper. That was one “I do” drenched in fear, one that she was undeniably reluctant to utter. She shifted nervously in his embrace and he loosened his grip, allowing her to turn around and lock her gaze on his. “Raoul, I accepted because in that moment I felt like I couldn’t say no.”

“Well… I definitely did not want you to feel pressured!”

“It wasn’t pressure, sweetie. I meant that saying ‘no’ felt ridiculous in that moment. I couldn’t think of a single reason why I wouldn’t want to be with you forever. But I’ve done some more thinking since then… You know your family is never accept me, an immigrant orphan opera singer, out of all people. There’s no point in losing our heads and hope for things that cannot be.”

“But why would think I wasn’t serious? Do you think it was just the spur of the moment?”

“No-”

“Christine, from the moment I said those words, I was quite determined to make it happen!”

She couldn’t hide the pity in her eyes and Raoul felt offended for a second. Then he remembered his brother’s words, the ones he tried so hard to hide from her, and felt the blood boiling in his veins. He turned angry eyes away from Christine and planted his clenched fists deep into the sofa.

“What more did he tell you, Raoul? It was about me _specifically_ , wasn’t it? You can tell me, I won’t mind,” Christine said softly. She’d have listened to any insult if it meant putting her lover at ease.

“He advised me not to see you again. ‘For her sake as much as for yours. She’s indeed a lovely girl; you wouldn’t want to fill her with hope only to break her heart afterwards. You know very well she can never be the mother of a proper de Chagny.’”

Christine knew that showing her own sadness would be a mistake. It would only enhance the young man’s anger and, impulsive as he was, that could have certainly made him do regretful things. But the count’s words hit her hard and Raoul didn’t need more than a quick glance in her direction to know something inside her began to hurt. He put out a hand, brushed aside a few strands of her hair and squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have told you…”

She closed her hand over his.

“It’s okay. You needed to tell someone. I’m your friend, aren’t I? It doesn’t matter, I think I’ve always known anyway. You need… you need to take care of your family, Raoul. And I guess I – both me and you, actually – need to understand I am not… countess material.”

“He’s so selfish…”

“He’s thinking about preserving the history of the family…”

“I don’t care about any stupid names or traditions. From my part, it can all go extinct tomorrow and I wouldn’t care as long as I have you. And you know what, if my brother is so obsessed with repopulating the de Chagny clan, why doesn’t he do it himself?”

Christine turned her face away from him with a disgusted expression.

“Oh no, Raoul, the last thing I need right now is the mental image of your brother… repopulating the clan!”

“You weren’t supposed to actually imagine it!” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not my fault I have a vivid imagination, honey.”

Silence fell between them. Christine crossed her legs in front of her, propped one elbow on the back of the sofa and rested her head in her palm. She kept dreamy eyes on Raoul, blinking slowly. She found herself thinking of his wonky smile there, on the rooftop, of his clumsy embraces, of his soft lips trembling with emotion when she had drawn him in a second, more passionate kiss. But then her gaze found his fingers and she remembered them playful and naughty, tickling her all over during the long Saturday nights spent in the solitude of his attic, in the company of reality TV and hot chocolate… and she became too sad to think of anything anymore. On the other hand, Raoul’s mind was fixated on Christine’s blue dress. It was short-sleeved and as casual as a dress can get. She had worn it during the summer, during the autumn, and look at her now, still wearing it, in the proximity of Christmas. He had offered so many times to buy her so many more beautiful dresses, one for every day of the year if she wanted, but she would always refuse him. ‘You don’t need to spend money on me. It would be a waste anyway, even if I had more dresses I’d still wear this one. It’s my favorite.’ He found himself smiling stupidly and realized he had made his decision.

“Will you marry me, Christine Daaé?”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly let the air out.

“Oh, Raoul, I don’t think I can…”

“All right, all right, it’s no big deal! I have another plan in this case!” she opened her eyes and looked at him rather intrigued. “If you don’t want to ever marry me, then I’ll become a celibate. There’s no way I will ever be comfortable to marry someone I don’t love, but I could very much manage on my own. What do rich bachelors do anyway? I’ll buy one of those expensive, beautiful dogs, who look aggressive all the time and take instructions only from me. I’ll retreat in a peculiar house, smoke cigars – I was never a fan of smoking, but maybe I should start –, drink centuries old whiskey from crystal glasses. And one day I’ll be in… Monaco, to watch the rallies and observe the night life, and I’ll spot in the crowd no other than Christine Daaé, the soprano of the century! And I’ll offer her my arm and she’ll take it, and everybody will whisper about how the Viscount of Chagny and La Daaé cannot take their eyes of each other, like they’d be made only to look at one another…”

Christine Daaé smiled resolutely.

“Then I take it you’ll leave Philippe the burden of reproducing?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a _fuck_ what Philippe does with his life anymore.”

Christine couldn’t hold her laugh back at the sound of the profanity; Raoul swore very rarely, but whenever he did, she found his tone and the force with which he said the words absolutely hilarious. Raoul waited for her giggling to die down and continued:

“However, I confess that a life of watching The Voice with only the dog, no matter how good of a dog he is, sounds not only utterly boring, but also kind of sad.”

Christine crossed her arms at her chest and refused to take the hint.

“It’s an awful show anyway. Maybe it will do you good if you stopped watching it.”

“If only it wasn’t so addictive… And your sarcastic comments always make for a hilarious experience…”

“Yes, it’s addictive…”

Her eyes met his and they both recalled those fun Saturday nights, when she’d sneak into his attic and they’d snuggle under blankets on an old bed, watching The Voice on a forgotten CRT TV. Christine wasn’t the type to make fun of fellow singers, but she found the show ridiculous and in the company of a dear friend and a bottle of wine, she allowed herself to make a comedic critique. Raoul took a leap of faith and squeezed her knees firmly. A sly grin appeared on his face.

“So, let me ask you another question. Christine Daaé, would you be willing to watch The Voice with me, for the rest of our lives?”

She removed his hands with a stern look in her eyes.

“I kind of hope they’ll stop plaguing our TVs with it eventually,” she replied, but Raoul wasn’t willing to give up easily. He was ready to accept a negative response, but he needed to know she wasn’t rejecting him merely out of fear.

“There’s always going to be a ‘The Voice’, Christine.”

She closed her eyes with a sigh. “I would very much want to be on the same couch with you, watching The Voice, Raoul. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” He took her hands in his and squeezed. Christine reciprocated the gesture. “You don’t even know how much I want it,” she whispered.

Then Christine put her legs down from the sofa and scooted closer to Raoul. They found themselves looking at each other, giggling uncontrollably, content with their ingenious plan. Christine cradled Raoul’s head in her hands and drew him towards her.

“Come here, my fiancé of a day. Come kiss your future bride.”

He leaned in and kissed her lips, and her shoulders straightened involuntarily, beaming with pride. His arms wrapped around her steadily. She loved his strong embraces; they were hardly ever sensual, but supportive instead. She felt the weight on her shoulders lift, felt herself light and safe and _free_.

Neither of them could say how long the kiss lasted. The wintery sun had set before they even got to the café and in the artificial lamplight, buried in each other’s warmth, time stood still. When their lips eventually parted, Raoul laid his head on Christine’s shoulder, his face hidden from the meddling crowd by her cascading blonder locks, and whispered an addendum to his proposal.

“Whatever it takes, Christine.” The words were barely audible, spoken like in a dream, yet his tone was one of absolute determination. “Whatever it takes.”

 

 


End file.
